I cannot fall asleep, and the hours tick by. Slowly watch the sun rising outside the bedroom window, the sounds of the household waking up coming from downstairs. I imagine my dad shuffling around the kitchen in his bathrobe and house shoes as he’s always done, brewing a fresh pot of coffee while he does a crossword puzzle. Enjoying the alone time before Mom wakes up and starts making demands. Roger’s honey-do list.

Sometime around six o’clock, Hollis stirs. During the night, she shifted to face me, and I watch as her eyelids begin to gradually part. Blinking herself awake like a scene in a movie—preferably a romantic movie, where the couple makes out and kisses good morning, maybe has quick morning sex.

She’s still wordlessly blinking up at me.

That can’t be good.

“Morning.” I smile at her.

“Did I sleep down here last night?”

Obviously. “Uh…yes.” Does she have amnesia?

“Oh.” Her eyes shift to the pillow. “Did you put this under my head?”

“Yes.”

She pauses. “Thank you.”

“Are you cold?”

Her eyes widen—she’s just realized she has no clothes on, other than her panties, and I swear she must be blushing. “No. You must have kept me warm.”

I grin. “I’m a hot box. That’s what my mom always called me growing up—I don’t think I ever wore pajamas to bed. Naked as a jaybird.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Uh—your side of the bed, I imagine.” I stare at her as best I can in the dim, early morning light. “You weren’t drunk last night, were you?”

Shit. Is that the reason she was all over me? Alcohol? I know I had a few beers with Tripp before he left, but I don’t remember Hollis tipping any back. Definitely not enough to get her drunk—not to the point where she’d have no memory.

“Sorry, I’m just so tired.” She yawns. “I’m going to need a nap today.”

Outside, the sun creeps up a little higher in the sky. “I’ll leave so you can get dressed.”

I rise, careful not to ogle her; it’s difficult because she’s just so damn pretty and I could stare at her all damn day. Right now she needs her privacy. Clearly she’s embarrassed about getting physical with me.

With no backward glance, I leave the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

14

Hollis

“Never have I ever made out with a guy in his parents’ house.”

I peek over at Buzz, who has his eyes trained on the road, and I replay his question in my mind. Have I ever made out with a guy in his parents’ house? “Never.”

He glances at me. “Never? Not even when you were younger?”

“Nope.” Let’s see, how do I explain this… “I grew up with parents who weren’t all that strict, because they weren’t really around. But, since everyone knew my dad—and my grandpa—not many guys wanted to mess with me. I mean, they wanted to date me because they liked going to the stadium and sitting in the owner’s box to see the games, but none of them actually liked me. I questioned everyone’s intentions, even as a kid.”

It’s a heavy answer for so early in the morning, but he started the game, so he gets what he gets.

“Dang. Okay, fair enough—makes total sense.”

We’re quiet for a few miles while I rack my brain. “Would you rather walk in on your parents having sex or have your parents walk in on you having sex?”

Buzz opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. “Those are two horrible options.”

“You have to choose.”

“There is no winning.”

“Choose.”

He clamps his mouth shut, pressing his lips together. “I’d rather walk in on my parents, I guess—then I could clamp my eyes shut and not have to listen to my mother forever remind me that she walked in on me having sex. I would never live it down.”

I have to laugh at that. “And you would let them live it down if you walked in on Roger and Genevieve?”

“Rog and Gen don’t have sex.” He shakes his head. No.

“They probably do—Rog seems spry yet,” I tease. “You boys probably take after him.”

“First of all, don’t. Second of all, ew.”

“Did you really just say ew?”

He nods. “I did and I’ll say it again—ew.” Buzz continues watching the road, then says, “Never have I ever dated a professional athlete.”

I side-eye him; how quickly they forget. “Duh, I dated Marlon for five of the worst minutes of my life.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot.”

We both laugh. “I take it you haven’t?”

“Nope.”

Hmm. He is way too cocky.

“Never have I ever dated a celebrity.” I’m certain I’ve got him with that one, but his smirk is confident.

“Nope.”

“Oh come on, you must have! Don’t all athletes date models and movie stars?”

“Not me.”

“I swear I saw you with some singer when I was—”

“Stalking me online? Nice! But no. We were photographed together, but we didn’t actually date. Our agents set it up—that happens a lot, actually. Anyway, she was a nutcase. I didn’t even bang her.”